


Nacht und wind

by dotfic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Community: sharp_teeth, Gen, Horror, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-19
Updated: 2011-04-19
Packaged: 2017-10-18 09:24:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/187409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dotfic/pseuds/dotfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the sharp_teeth prompt "Erlkonig." They have to keep driving.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nacht und wind

**Author's Note:**

> Written for sharp_teeth to the prompt: _John and Dean: Erlkönig[poem prompt](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Der_Erlk%C3%B6nig)._ Thank you to smilla02 for the beta.

John tucked Sammy in at Pastor Jim's, and took Dean with him to Caleb's, thought the boy might learn a few more things about weaponry. Dean wasn't allowed to hold a gun in his hands unless John was in the room, hands hovering near, although he knew how to load and fire a shotgun. There was a lot more to teach him. There were too many shadows in brightly lit homes, in the dark corners out of reach of the neon burn of diner signs, things in the woods no one wanted to talk about. The smell of decayed flesh burning that no amount of bourbon could fully wash from John's nose and mouth -- he was getting used to it. Nothing ever was just a school building, just a road, just an abandoned house listing with broken windows, they were all places that could be invaded, haunted, or hold nightmares within the walls.

He listened while Caleb told a joke, watched Dean's freckled nose wrinkle up for a moment until he got it, and then he laughed. The two of them grinned at each other -- Caleb was barely past boyhood himself, full of rough charm and overconfidence, tough to haggle with because it was so easy to like him. The scents of gun oil and metal and the coffee brewing in the instant coffee maker in Caleb's back-room place of business were almost home now, like the smell of the Impala, his boys when they needed a bath, the memory of Mary's kitchen in Lawrence, her shampoo.

"The gun you wanted isn't in yet, the shipment's delayed," Caleb said, pouring coffee into a Disney World mug. He handed it to John, black no sugar, never forgot how John liked it. "Sid's kind of an idiot and makes his own trouble. You and Dean can crash in my living room tonight, the couch isn't too lumpy and I've got a pad for the floor."

So they hung out with Caleb. They went to eat at a place that bragged of the best pie in three states, and John thought they were mostly right, watching his oldest son stuff his face, ice cream dripping down his chin, although the pie he'd had in Minnesota last week was a little better.

Dean looked like any kid, digging into his pie like that. Hair in a cowlick that wouldn't stay down. A little too lean, eyes a little too shadowed.

The sniffle and cough Dean started up with that night got worse by morning, face flushed, his skin too hot when John put his palm against his forehead.

"Aw, crap," said John. "You've got a thing."

"I feel fine," Dean said, his voice only a little scratched.

"Sure you do, kiddo." He put his hand on Dean's head, smoothing down the cowlick.

He called Jim to check on Sammy, and then he and Caleb left Dean curled up under a blanket, watching cartoons while they finished up business.

They were on the road by that night, Dean curled up on the passenger seat with the old blanket over him, his head leaning against the window glass. Eyes closed and chest rising and falling easily, except for a cough now and then.

The white lines were ribbons of light stretched ahead of them in the dark. It was a better route than the main highway. The glow of the tape deck light fell over Dean's legs and John's sleeve, Clapton playing very very low so Dean wouldn't wake up. The wind kicked up to something vicious, the outline of the trees shaking as they raced by, a board falling loose from a fence.

Dean stirred, opened his eyes, face a pale reflection in the glass. He drew back from the window with a gasp.

"What is it?"

"Nothin'," Dean said after a moment. He rubbed his hand over his face.

"Drink some more orange juice." John handed him the carton with the straw tucked into the spout.

After taking a few gulps, Dean settled down again, while the wind showed no signs of settling down, and faint drifts of fog started to appear in the headlights. One hell of a messy night. John waited for rain to start spattering the windshield, but the rain didn't come.

"No, stop it, no!" Dean sat upright, eyes opening wide. "Shut up!"

"Dean!"

"He's out there." Dean put his fingers to the glass as the Impala raced along.

John's chest tightened. "Who's out there?"

"He's..." Dean peered out the window, turned back to John, frowning. "He told me that he wouldn't hurt me, said we'd play games. He lives near the shore."

Reaching out, John cupped his hand along Dean's cheek. The boy's skin was fever-hot. He'd taken Tylenol about an hour ago, too soon for more. "Easy, Dean. That's a nasty bug you've got."

Pulling his hand away, John palmed the outline of the knife he had tucked into his jacket, thought of the shotgun on the floor in the back seat. In case. Always in case, the wards and the salt lines and the lessons, the weapons.

The fog thickened, slipping past the car on either side.

Dean refused to curl up again, sat rigid in his seat, eyes out the window, fingers tight around the edge of the bench. The blanket fell to the floor.

"Dean, it's okay. You've got a fever, go back to sleep." John tried to push off the fear that closed his throat every time one of the boys got sick.

It was just a cold for chrissake. He let go of the wheel with one hand, reached down and grabbed the blanket so he could put it on Dean's lap. Eventually Dean slumped again, drawing his knees up. John tugged the blanket over his shoulders while Dean leaned his head against the door.

The miles rolled under them quietly for a while before Dean started a low murmur under his breath, something about dancing. He began to squirm, eyes still closed in sleep, struggling against something. His body wrenched away from the window, towards John.

They'd have to stop -- this fever was bad, he needed to stop driving and see to Dean properly, get him calmed down, get some more juice into him, maybe he should lie down in the back, but John had wanted him up front where he could see him. The worry knifed through him, maybe this was worse than he thought, maybe Dean needed a hospital.

As John started to slow the Impala, Dean's eyes opened and he shouted, "No, Dad, don't stop the car!"

The lucid note of fear in Dean's voice, the sharpness of the demand, made John push down on the gas pedal.

"Talk to me," John said, words snapping out military-style.

"He's out there." Dean's fingers clenched hard into John's arm. "He reached for me, he said he wants me to go with him but I don't want to." John rarely saw Dean visibly lose it -- his little soldier -- but Dean bit down on his lower lip, looking several years younger than he was for a moment. "Don't let him, Dad. Please, don't let him. You have to keep driving." His breath was ragged, too fast. "Keep driving. We have to outrun him."

"Okay, okay, we'll keep driving." John tried to smile reassuringly, felt he did a terrible job of it. He curled an arm around Dean's shoulders, held him against him while he kept one hand on the wheel.

He peered into the fog folding away around them. If he could see this thing, figure out what it was, it would make it easier to destroy it.

"Son of a bitch!" Dean yelled, and kicked out -- at air, as far as John could see. His sneakers thumped against the door. "Let go of me! No, I'm not yours, let go!"

His arm tight across Dean's chest, John let his gaze flick to the road ahead, just for a second, to make sure they didn't crash on top of everything else. And that's how he saw it -- in the corner of his eye, it became visible, flickering in and out, a slim dark figure in a cloak, riding a creature that only vaguely resembled a horse. Too angular, the eyes bright with flame. The rider's face was long, almost gaunt, and fiercely beautiful, arms and torso going through the side of the Impala as if it were a projection. Long thin fingers wrapped around Dean's ankle.

Iron and dead languages. John pulled out the knife and struck, snarling the Latin incantation. The blade went through a cloak that seemed made of smoke, thin pale fingers vanishing from Dean's ankle. The gangly arm pulled away. Dean had reached the stage where he insisted he was too grown-up for hugs, but he pushed up against John now as if he wanted to hide there.

The hand reached again, grabbing at Dean's leg, Dean's mouth closed in such a hard line that John barely caught the thin whimper over the rumble of the Impala's engine.

"It's okay," John muttered. "I got him. I got him." Keeping one hand on the wheel -- and god help them if there were any other cars on the road -- he jabbed with the knife, the blade sinking into flesh this time with a wet, sickening crunch. Whether he hit the rider or the creature it rode, he couldn't tell. There was a scream that made John's teeth ache while Dean clamped his hands over his ears.

The shape of the thing started to break, splitting into transparent pieces that fell swiftly away behind the Impala.

John kept on driving.

"What was that?" Dean asked, tilting his head to look up at his father.

"Don't know."

John kept on driving, kept glancing at the rearview mirror, kept on hand on Dean's back while Dean fell asleep against his arm, his head too warm through the cloth of John's jacket, left the iron knife on the dashboard within easy reach while Clapton played very very softly on the radio.


End file.
